Then – Bucharest. We made our way, gingerly, down the fantastically bad Romanian road system, marvelling at the only length of motorway in the country. A decent part of the road this, and it really didn’t go anywhere. We had decided to live it up a little in Bucharest after a few months of camping – we booked a pretty flash room at the NH Hotel Bucharest. A bathroom, aircon and telly – it even had tea and coffee making facilities. Fighting through the Bucharest traffic was easier than I had anticipated. Or perhaps I had simply grown used to the peculiarities of Romanian driving. Romanians, I had discovered, were really pretty ordinary drivers. Sure, they made it a matter of pride that they can pass on a blind corner, or aiming straight at the Tatra
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